Until You Are Dead
by Grav
Summary: The BAU is called to a small town in Ontario to help in the re-investigation of a 50-year-old murder case after three additional bodies are found.
1. Chapter 1

AN: I usually love Criminal Minds to distraction. But "To Hell...And Back" left me really cold because I felt they had not done Canada justice. And not just because of their abysmal geography. So this story comes from that. And because these characters have moved into my brain and taken over.

The title of the fic is taken from a book by Julian Sher about the case I am using as a model, which was in turn taken from the original sentence "to be hanged by the neck _until you are dead_".

Warnings: I don't typically warn in fics, because I usually write for Stargate. This, however, is Criminal Minds. Criminal Minds is not exactly cotton candy at the best of times, and I've tried to make this story as true to the show as possible.

The case I've used as a model is the true story of a 14-year-old boy who was convicted of raping and strangling a 13-year-old schoolmate in 1959. Consider yourself "viewer discretion is advised".

Disclaimer: Not mine. Thank goodness. Can you imagine the therapy bill if I owned these people?

Rating: Teen, like the show.

Summary: The BAU is called to small town Ontario to help in the re-investigation of a 50-year-old murder case after three additional bodies are found.

* * *

**Prologue  
**

_Raglan RAF Base, Ontario, 1959_

It was almost too hot.

Sunlight saturated everything, giving the trees and houses an unhealthy brightness and false vitality. The air was thick with the steam of growing plants, peeling paint and sweaty bodies. The tightly packed houses, austerely regimental, offered no chance of a cooling breeze. As the humidity climbed, so too did tempers.

One by one, the children fled the safety of home for the relief of the school yard, or the bridge over the river. They gathered to play, to try to escape from the relentless summer heat, and to avoid the way their mothers wilted around the house while their fathers were at drill or on assignment.

With so many children around, it was like browsing in a very particular sort of grocery store. Rounded arms peeked out of short sleeves, knees winked from under skirts, and saddle-shoed feet seemed to be everywhere. All he needed was he patience to separate one of them from the pack.

So he waited. And, of course, she came.

He pretended a sympathetic ear as she complained about the fight she'd had with her parents over dinner. He watched the way the evening sun glinted across her shoulders and lit up her hair.

And then he got her alone, in the cool shade of the woods, and it didn't matter if she screamed.

* * *

"_Then away out in the woods I heard that kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about something that's on its mind and can't make itself __understood, and so can't rest easy in its grave, and has to go about that way every night grieving._" – Mark Twain

Sometimes they don't have enough time in the air. The flight is over before they're ready, and their boots are on the ground before they've had enough time to fully process what they are about to encounter. Those are the good times. The bad times are when the flight stretches out before them in a silence so profoundly full of horror, even chess cannot entirely dispel it.

The flight to Saltrock, Ontario, the only farm town in a sea of agricultural nothingness to boast a landing strip, is short, but the silence enveloped them almost before they reached cruising altitude.

"Why did they call us?" Reid asked, finally breaking the silence. He was not the only one thinking it. They all knew that both the OPP and the RCMP had their own profiling divisions.

"The Stephen DuCette case set the country on fire half a century ago," Hotch said, his voice level. "Tensions are running pretty high right now, and the people in charge wanted to call in someone independent."

"It was fifty years ago," Morgan said. "And he's been acquitted since then. How can tensions still be running high?"

"It's true enough  
That we cannot brag  
Of a national anthem  
Or a national flag  
And though our Vision  
Is still in doubt  
At last we've something to boast about:  
We've a national law  
In the name of the Queen  
To hang a child  
Who is just fourteen." Rossi quoted. "Small town, Morgan, and one child convicted of killing another. It's not something these people can forget."

"It was a watershed case," Reid added, looking up from the large book he was reading. "Shortly afterwards, the death penalty was abolished and the young offenders act was completely rewritten."

"Still, Reid, you've got to admit, 50 years?" Morgan asked. "There've been other high profile murders in Canada since then."

"In Canada, yes, my intrepid agents," Garcia but in over the conference link. "But not on the lovely West Coast of Ontario."

"West Coast of Ontario?" Prentiss asked.

"Lake Huron, according to tourist brochures," Garcia replied. "But sadly, you are not there to vacation."

"What did you find, Garcia?" Rossi asked, leaning forward.

"The local papers have exploded, but it's mostly opinion pieces," Garcia replied. "The insistence that he's innocent is almost overwhelming, but there are a few detractors."

"I've arranged for a press conference at the local high school," JJ said. "Hopefully that will calm people down a little."

"Do you think they even know what a press conference is?" Morgan muttered to Prentiss. She pretended not to hear him.

Reid set the book down on the table in front of him. On the cover was a smiling boy, leaning on a bicycle, the words "Until You Are Dead" emblazoned above his head. Prentiss' eyes lingered on the cover. Morgan looked away.

"Never make the mistake of thinking farmers are stupid, Morgan," Rossi said. "They'll kick your ass, to start with."

"The victim's family refused to cooperate," Morgan persisted. "Why is no one thinking about them?"

"Should we be thinking of DuCette as a victim as well?" Prentiss said hesitantly, avoiding Morgan's gaze.

"Let's hold off on that till we've talked to the people on the ground," Rossi said.

"The case is local mythology now," Hotch added, catching Prentiss's gaze. "It needs to be handled carefully. Most of the witnesses were children at the time, and any surviving adult is probably so set in his or her opinion that nothing we say is going to change anyone's mind."

Prentiss shifted and broke eye contact.

"Prentiss?" Hotch said, already bracing for a storm.

"The man was acquitted," she said, her eyes flaring again. "He was tried as an adult as a result of one of the most botched pieces of police-work I've ever seen, and sentenced to _hang_. It doesn't matter that his sentence was commuted; he was acquitted fifty years too late."

"And new evidence has come to light," Rossi said quietly. "It's messy, we know that, but he's the one who pushed for our invitation. He doesn't trust his own country anymore. Can you blame him? He expects us to exonerate him. We do the job and find the truth, whatever that is."

Prentiss held Rossi's gaze until the landing announcement was made and they both looked down for their seatbelts.

The descent began.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

The Saltrock landing strip was paved, but there wasn't much of an accompanying airport. There was a barn, modified to incorporate the control tower, a makeshift hanger that was just long enough for the jet, and a gravel parking lot. Rossi couldn't resist snapping a photograph as a tractor towed the jet to its temporary rest place. Morgan gaped at him.

"One for the scrapbook," Rossi explained, taking a shot of the team's awed faces for good measure.

"Oh, I'm pretty sure Drew will take plenty of pictures of your plane for his scrapbook," said the Canadian constable who approached them. "Your plane is a lot shinier than most of what we get around here."

"Agent Jennifer Jareau," said JJ, extending a hand. "We spoke on the phone."

"Special Constable Don Cooke," he replied, shaking her hand. "I've been the primary on his case since the bodies were discovered. The OPP's been sending in specialists ever since. They all report to me, but I have them report to you instead."

"Derek Morgan," Morgan interjected, hand out. "We don't mess with lines of communication unless we have to. We're just another team of specialists."

"Thank you, agent," Cooke said. "We'll go directly to Town Hall and you can be briefed on everything at once."

"Town Hall?" Prentiss asked, one eyebrow arching.

"Raglan no longer has its own police force," Cooke explained as they approached the waiting cars. "The OPP assigned six full time officers to the region, but base of operations is here in Saltrock. It didn't make sense to set up here and add twenty minutes to everyone's drive time."

"There's no station in Raglan at all?" Reid asked "Who do people call?"

"The fire, police and ambulance switchboards are all routed through the hospital," Cooke said. "The police station is a room with a desk and a reinforced closet. We decided to run the task force out of Town Hall."

The constable got into the driver's seat one of the cars, missing the look Morgan shot Hotch. The glare Hotch returned was clear and impossible to misinterpret: behave and play nice, they're doing the best they can.

Morgan sighed, but by the time he was seated in the car, his face was all business.

* * *

The Raglan Town Hall was a yellow brick building that seemed oddly close to the street. When Prentiss said as much, Spencer pointed out that it had probably been built before the invention of the car necessitated a roadway wide enough for two lanes plus parking spots. They were shown to a side entrance, which opened off a cobblestone courtyard complete with a bubbling fountain. The whole building felt decidedly sideways as a result.

In a room obviously vacated for just this reason, Constable Cooke gathered the other members of the task force for the briefing. A young officer distributed folders.

"Everyone, these are the FBI agents mentioned in this morning's bullet." Cooke waved a hand at the team. "I'll let you worry about individual introductions later."

Hotch scanned the room. The uniformed officers were regarding them with professional curiosity and the civilians all looked politely intrigued. At least there was no outright hostility.

"Agents, if you please," Cooke began. "In 1959 the body of Lynne Bard was discovered in Lawford's Bush, just outside of what was then the Ragland RAF Base and what is now the town of Anastra. She had been raped and then strangled with her own sweater."

Rossi flipped to the scene photos. For all that black and white pictures muted some of the details, they made death that much more stark.

"Fourteen-year-old Stephen DuCette was arrested, charged, tried and found guilty of her murder." Cooke said. "Originally sentenced to hang, he had his sentence commuted to life in prison instead. He was released on parole, and eventually released from that as well. Until four years ago, he lived under an assumed name, but he has since reclaimed his identity."

Prentiss surveyed the room, noting that she was not the only member of her team to do so. As Cooke so prosaically summarized several decades of alleged legal travesty, she looked for reactions from those assembled. They were mixed. About half shifted uncomfortably, while the faces of the others hardened into an expression Prentiss recognized as a defense against perceived injustice.

"Three days ago, Evan Lawford was trying to burn out a stump in his woodlot when he discovered human remains. Archaeologists, called in to consult with the OPP, uncovered three bodies. All three were prepubescent, ruling out a scientific means of establishing their sex, but the associated remains indicate that they are female."

Reid studied the map of the bush that showed the location of the mass interment compared to where Lynne Bard's body had been found.

"Which of you are the archaeologists?" Rossi asked the room at large.

"They're still at the scene," an officer replied.

"Morgan and Prentiss, you should get there as soon as possible," Hotch said.

"Officer Broadfoot will take you," Cooke said. "What about the rest of you?"

"We're here partially at the request of Stephen DuCette," Reid said. "We'll be interviewing him."

"He lives almost two hours away," Cooke warned.

"Nevertheless," Hotch said.

"I'll take you myself."

"Reid, I want you to stay here," Hotch said. Reid looked surprised. "There's a lot of information in this room, and you're the best equipped to process it quickly."

Reid nodded and turned his attention to the whiteboard and notes that were plastered on almost every space on the walls.

"JJ?" Rossi said, as he room cleared.

"I have that press conference to set up," she reminded him. "And then I'll be here keeping you all on the same page and making sure we don't get run out of town."

"Very good," Rossi said. "Call Garcia and get her started on whatever it is she does to get into the official servers of foreign governments."

JJ smiled. "She's probably already started."

With a final nod, Rossi followed Hotch and Cooke back to the car. He hadn't shifted fully into interrogation mode, so he couldn't block out the unobjective thoughts that circled around in his head. He _really_ hoped this one was innocent.

* * *

AN: The poem Rossi recites is called "Requiem for a 14-Year-Old" and was written by Pierre Berton.

Bonus fun fact for the day: "interment" is a burial, "internment" is a confinement. It's one of those words you only need to know in certain professions, but I didn't want any of you thinking that it had slipped past me (or my beta!) in the spell check.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"So I've been looking for girls who went missing in the area before 1959 and were never found," Garcia's voice sounded from the phone Rossi balanced in his hands.

"Didn't the police already do that?" Rossi asked.

"Probably," Garcia allowed. "But all those towns had their own police forces back then, and there was no centralized database. I'm looking outside the area covered by word of mouth, to see if I can connect the dots by myself."

"How will you know if they connect?" Hotch asked.

"Do you have any idea of the population density where you are right now?" Garcia demanded. Rossi heard Reid clear his throat over the phone. "Reid, don't answer that. These people drive a lot. The closest mall is forty-five minutes away, and the closest movie theatre is thirty minutes in the opposite direction."

"So you're thinking our unsub might have cast a wide net?" Rossi asked.

"You are right on the money, Secret Agent Man," Garcia said. Rossi saw Cooke's eyebrows rise in the rearview mirror.

"Garcia, don't search further back than 1956," Hotch said.

"Why not?" Cooke asked.

"Stephen DuCette is still our prime suspect. He would have been eleven in 1956," Reid explained, a brief burst of static obscuring his voice over the phone. "Sexual sadism doesn't fully emerge until puberty, so his is as far back as DuCette would have been killing. This would help us rule him out."

"Okay, I've got it," Garcia said. "Eight girls were reported missing and never found in the years between 1956 and 1959."

"Only eight?" Hotch said said.

"From an area with this demographic at that point in history, that number is not unusual," Reid said.

"Those were better times," Rossi said nostalgically.

"Not always for police procedure," Cooke added.

"Garcia, how many of those girls went missing on or near RAF bases?" Hotch asked.

"DuCette's father wasn't transferred until after the trial," Cooke pointed out.

"No, but travel between bases was common," Hotch explained.

"Only three," Garcia said. "And before you ask, all went missing at times when officers from Raglan would have been on leave."

"Great work, Garcia," Hotch said. "Call Prentiss and Morgan and fill them in."

"You got it, boss," Garcia said. "Mistress of Knowledge out."

There were a few moments of silence in the car as the men inside digested the information. Farmland slid by the windows, fields so green it was hard to imagine death at all.

"How does she get that kind of information?" Cooke asked finally.

"I don't ask."

* * *

Prentiss knew Morgan well enough to know that it would be better for everyone if she got him to vent in the car on the way to the scene. She let him take the front seat and sat behind Officer Broadfoot so he could turn around and yell at her. She waited until they reached the highway and then began.

"What is it, Morgan?" she said bluntly.

"Oh, come on. Are you telling me you didn't notice?" Morgan obliged her. "Not a person in that room believes DuCette is guilty. It's the most unobjective operation I've ever seen."

Officer Broadfoot didn't so much as flinch as Morgan questioned the abilities of the entire task force. Prentiss decided she liked him.

"I'm not going to lie, Agent Morgan," Broadfoot said. "All of us hope like hell we come out of this by proving him innocent. I've lived here my entire life, and so have a lot of the people I work with. Not a few of us became cops because of this case. But we'll do our jobs."

"I think Agent Morgan is more concerned about what will happen to us if we do _our _jobs and find him guilty," Prentiss said.

"We're professionals," Broadfoot said. "We're just hoping for the best."

Morgan looked at him, taking his measure.

"This case is already legend, Agent," Broadfoot said, pulling off the deserted two-lane highway on to an even quieter paved, but not painted, road. "Now we're part of it. And so help us, we want to be the heroes."

"Fair enough," Morgan said.

The car crossed a bridge and then Officer Broadfoot stopped.

"We're here?" Prentiss asked in a confused tone. There was no other police presence here, and there was no bush.

"No," said Broadfoot, undoing his seatbelt. "Get out, though. There's something you need to see."

Morgan and Prentiss exchanged a glance. Prentiss decided that the two of them could probably take the Canadian officer if he tried anything, and undid her seatbelt. Morgan rolled his eyes, but followed suit.

Officer Broadfoot led them to the centre of the bridge and pointed back towards the highway.

"At his trial, Stephen DuCette testified that he looked back from this bridge and saw Lynne Bard get into a 1959 Chevrolet Bel Air. The model was unique because of the tail lights, but the Crown said he was too far away to identify it, and was just describing a car he'd seen previously." Prentiss found herself squinting at the empty road as Officer Broadfoot spoke. She felt Morgan standing beside her, mimicking her stance, and realized he had finally engaged. "The question you need to ask yourself, agents, is whether you think he really did see that car."

Broadfoot walked back to the car, leaving Morgan and Prentiss standing thoughtfully in the middle of the road. Prentiss knew the moment had come.

"What is it really?" she asked quietly.

"I was innocent. A victim. Just like they all think DuCette is. I stayed away from Chicago as much as was humanly possible," Morgan said, old pain in his eyes. "But when justice was finally served, it nearly ruined my entire neighbourhood."

"We can't do this job if we think about the outcome," Prentiss said automatically. "Besides, everyone who was here then is gone. There is no community left to ruin."

"You saw them," Morgan said. "Officer Broadfoot wasn't even born when the murder took place, and it's why he became a cop!"

"We do the job," Prentiss said.

"I know," Morgan replied. He looked back towards the highway. "What do you think?"

"I think he saw the car." She didn't hesitate.

Morgan did not reply, which meant he was starting to agree with her.

* * *

The scene was taped off at the road. There was one squad car, a port-o-potty and an OPP trailer. Morgan and Prentiss waited inside the trailer while Officer Broadfoot and his colleague talked outside. After a few moments, the forensic archaeologist arrived. She was younger than Morgan expected, and she was completely covered in mud.

"Dr. Knight?" Prentiss asked.

"No, he's at the autopsies. I'm part of his team," she replied. "My name is Meren. I'm going to lead you in."

Both agents looked at her with questioning expressions on their faces.

"It's the same as any other scene, agents," Meren said. "One way in, one way out. The officers who recovered the initial remains did enough damage."

"What do you mean by 'initial remains'?" asked Morgan, refusing to take the bait.

"The bodies were buried for more than fifty years,' Meren explained. "Putting something in the ground doesn't make it stationary, especially not in a wooded area. Tree roots grow deep and animals are very good at digging things up."

"How badly were the bodies disturbed?" Prentiss asked.

"The bottom two skeletons were barely disturbed at all, but we'll still probably never recover and isolate the small bones," she said. "The uppermost skeleton was only fifty percent recovered. That's why we're clearing the brush."

Meren gestured at the forest floor, and Prentiss noticed that all of the low-growing plants and plant refuse had been removed.

"Thorough," Morgan said laconically.

"After the OPP recovered Christine Jessop's body, they took her family to the bush to see where she'd been found," Meren said. "Her mother found her left femur, a large piece of her skull and the skirt she'd been wearing when she disappeared."

"God!" said Prentiss.

"That's how Dr. Knight started consulting with the OPP," Meren went on. "He teaches training classes, but – "

"Sometimes you need the specialists." Morgan finished. "That's why we're here too."

Meren smiled, and they reached the gravesite.

The hole was about a metre and a half deep, and just over a metre long. This meant it had not been dug by a person in a hurry, and that it required a shovel at the very least. There were coloured flags pushed into the dirt at what Morgan first thought were random intervals. When he looked closely, however, he realized that each flag indicated a minute change in soil colour or texture. At the top of the hole were the charred remains of the stump Evan Lawford had been burning when he'd made his gruesome discovery.

"The red flags delineate the upper burial; the orange, the middle; and the yellow, the bottom," Meren said. "That tree root grew through the pelvis of the most recent burial and the ribcage of the others."

"What does that mean?" Prentiss asked.

"It means we know the bodies have been in the ground longer than the tree has been alive," Meren explained. "The tree was cut down four years ago, and it was less than fifty years old at the time. That means the bodies were in the ground by 1959 at the latest."

Prentiss took a moment to catch up on the math.

"Also, we found four coins in the second victim's associated remains, and the most recent date is 1957," Meren added. "The Canadian mint cycled out most of those coins for the silver after World War Two. It would be statistically unlikely to find this sort of concentration randomly together any later than 1960."

It was a mark of their long association with Reid that neither agent was phased by the specificity of her information.

"Where was Lynne Bard's body found?" Morgan asked.

"Two hundred metres that way," Meren pointed back towards the road.

"This spot is almost entirely secure," Morgan said to Prentiss. "The unsub could have stayed here as long as he wanted to."

"Lynne Bard's recovery site is relatively exposed," Prentiss agreed. "Something is different about her murder."

"He didn't plan it, and he was in a hurry," Meren said. Both agents looked sharply at her. She shrugged. "It's easier to train an archaeologist to be a police officer than the other way around."

"Thank you very much, Meren," Prentiss said. She was already going for her phone.

"We'll show ourselves out," Morgan said.

"You're welcome," Meren called after them as they headed back to the car.

When Prentiss turned to look back, she was already back at work.

* * *

­­

AN: This is my hometown, my friends. This is my hometown. (As such, I've changed everyone's names, including those of the historical figures. It's really not that hard to google, of course, but still. The town names have also been changed.)

Bonus Fun Fact: When we were in ninth grade, most of my friends were in a CBC Documentary for the Fifth Estate about this case. One of my very best friends played Lynne, and another played Stephen. I decided not to do it, as it interfered with my basketball schedule, and I have regretted it ever since (not because I wasn't on TV, but because I turned down an opportunity to be a part of "the legend", as it were: they actually got to meet "DuCette", though at the time they thought he was a producer).


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Rossi's cell phone was once again balanced in his hand and held forward so the men in the front could hear. They had just pulled off the highway, and Cooke was threading the car through the urban maze that made up a typical Toronto bedroom community. Everyone was patched in but JJ, who was still taking questions at the press conference.

"We can't take a firm date from the coins," Hotch said. He pulled out his pocket change. "I've got four quarters here, and they're all from the 1980s."

"The archaeologist said it's statistically unlikely for this many silver coins to be in the same collection," Prentiss said.

"Additionally, coins with King George on them were pulled from circulation after Queen Elizabeth's coronation," Reid added. "Taken in conjunction with the tree root, it's a solid date."

Rossi and Hotch exchanged a glance. Rossi shrugged.

"Fair enough," Hotch said. "Garcia, what have you got?"

"I forwarded our three potential IDs to the coroner's office," Garcia reported. "The forensic anthropologist assisted at the autopsy and confirmed the identifications."

"Our people will notify any surviving family members," Cooke said. "Will you need to speak to them?"

"Not yet," said Rossi. "There are two possibilities: either DuCette killed them all and the murders stopped because he was in prison, or someone else committed the murders and stopped for a reason we don't know yet."

"Or DuCette killed Lynne Bard and someone else killed the others," Hotch said. "We can't rule that out entirely."

"Okay, we'll call that option three," Rossi allowed. "Garcia, see who moved away from Raglan after 1959."

"On it."

"Do we really think that that an eleven-year-old could have done this?" Prentiss asked. "Murdered those first three girls?"

"It's unlikely, but possible," Reid said. "We have a very limited set of data for child serial killers because they're so rare and because most children and teens profile as sociopaths anyway."

"Hotch, I'm not sure _I_ could have dug that hole," Morgan said. He was the only person who could see Prentiss's eyes widen in surprise. "Between the depth and tree roots…"

"Understandable," Hotch said. "But when we interview DuCette, we interview him as an unsub."

"Okay, my intrepid agents," Garcia cut in, silencing any number of potential arguments. "Only four military families besides the DuCettes were reassigned and moved away in 1959."

"Can you run them down?" Rossi asked.

"I can," said Garcia. "But I've found something better."

"Now's not the time to be a tease, baby girl," Morgan said.

"You have no appreciation for building to the reveal, my friend," Garcia replied.

"Garcia," Hotch said shortly.

"Sorry, sir," Garcia's instant contrition fooled no one. "One civilian family, a mother and her eight-year-old daughter, moved away from the area that summer."

"And?" Rossi said.

"They moved away quickly, she didn't even sell the house until three months later," Garcia continued. "Here's the kicker: they moved _before_ Lynne Bard's murder."

"Where are they now?"

"Alma Dykstra died a few years ago," Garcia said. "But her daughter Margaret Gallant is alive and well and living in Waterford."

"Your agents can be there in an hour," Cooke supplied.

"Prentiss, Reid, you take this one," Hotch declared. "Morgan, bring JJ up to date and then look over any police files Reid didn't get to."

"Agent Hotchner, we're just around the corner," Cooke said, pulling the SUV onto a residential street.

"We'll talk to you when we're done," Rossi said, and shut off the phone before the team was finished signing off. "You really want to interview this guy like he's an unsub?"

"It's our job," Hotch said simply.

Rossi could think of six different responses to that, but after seeing the look in Hotch's eyes, decided to say nothing at all.

* * *

Every house in the subdivision was the same. The colour of the brick varied, and some owners had chosen to upgrade certain features - a front atrium or the gable over the garage - but every house was, at its soul, identical to its neighbours. To compensate, the residents hung decorations: old doors at awkward angles and dangling flower pots brimming with geraniums. Some had elaborate gardens with landscaped rocks and carefully maintained shrubbery. Some had fences to hem in the family dog. But even their attempts at individuality were conformative. This was a place where a person could conceal his identity from the world.

Before Evan Lawford's woodsmanship brought the case to light again, DuCette had been awarded a large sum of money by the government as reparation. If he'd spent it on the house, he'd concealed it well. Nothing about the home said anything about the inhabitant. That was what made it so identifiable. Hotch picked out the DuCette house before Cooke pulled into the driveway.

Hotch saw the curtains twitch out of the corner of his eye and knew their arrival had been noted. He wondered what the neighbours thought; if any of them had moved away when DuCette revealed his true name and took his identity back; what happened to this house on Devil's Night. He was not entirely comfortable with the role he was about to play, but he knew it was as necessary as it was potentially damaging. When he and Rossi were through, there would be no doubt left, and it wouldn't matter what anyone thought of a seemingly cold and heartless FBI agent.

Cooke knew his part as well. He was to introduce the agents, and then keep his nose out of it. He wasn't sure he liked letting a comrade, even a new one, take the fall for something that was a group effort, but he'd read a lot about this group of agents, and knew they were the best at what they did.

Rossi pulled on his sport jacket, having removed it for the drive. It was a little rumpled, because he'd thrown it on a chair in a ball during the flight too. Compared to Hotch's perpetually well pressed suit and tie combination it was bordering on casual, but it was comfortable. Rossi had noticed that comfort begat comfort.

So it was that Mrs. DuCette opened the door to three men that looked nothing like the one's who'd gotten into the SUV. Constable Cooke was the friendly local, anxious to end this as soon as possible and restore the status quo. Rossi was the sympathetic professional, the world-weary writer searching for inspiration. And Hotch was the agent of justice, as implacable as he was blind.

"Please come in," Mrs. DuCette said. Cooke hadn't even had time to make the introductions.

She led them to the living room. It was longer than it was broad, and the awkward space was carefully furnished to hide the dimensional shortcomings. Today, it was more crowded than usual, as three chairs had been brought in from the dining room and placed in front of the fireplace. The chairs faced the chesterfield, on which sat a man who looked so regular, Hotch's façade almost cracked.

The two oldest DuCette children sat on the piano bench, pulled out alongside the sofa so that the family could face down the agents together. The youngest boy sat next to his father. His mother joined them as the agents and Constable Cooke took their seats.

"Thank you very much for agreeing to speak with us today," Cooke said. "Agent Rossi and Agent Hotchner are going to do most of the talking, and some of their questions might seem a little odd, but I guarantee that these men are the best at what they do."

"What exactly do they do?" asked the daughter.

"We examine the lives and behaviours of people who have committed serious crimes in the hope of profiling the behaviours of new perpetrators," Rossi said.

"And behaviours can tell you if someone is a serial killer?" the oldest son ask.

"They help, yes," Rossi said.

"Ask your questions," DuCette said, speaking for the first time. It was almost a plea, full of hope and completely lacking in fear.

"Mrs. DuCette," Rossi began, "did you know who your husband was before you married him?"

"Of course," she replied. "I protested against his incarceration when I was in high school and college. When I met him, I knew he was innocent."

"You never had any doubts?" Hotch's voice was so flat it was hard to tell if he'd voiced a question or a statement.

"None," came the reply, her conviction absolute.

"Liza," Rossi said, addressing the daughter directly. "Could you characterize your relationship with your father?"

"He's my father," Liza replied after a moment during which DuCette seemed to realize where this was headed and stiffened in his seat.

"He never did anything untoward?" Hotch asked. "Never came into your room without knocking, or spent time watching you when you had slumber parties?"

"I never had slumber parties." She said the words automatically, without an understanding of the question. Then realization dawned in her eyes and her voice hardened. "No, Agent Hotchner. Nothing untoward."

"Agent, I was led to believe your questions were for me,' DuCette said. His voice was completely level, but there was a desperation in his eyes that Hotch could recognize. He was trying to protect his family. Hotch knew where to go from here.

"Then why is your family here, Mr. DuCette?" Hotch asked, refused to let the act drop. "Your children are grown and have moved away."

"When they turned eighteen we told them everything," Mrs. DuCette said. "Since then, we've kept none of the case details a secret from them."

"How did you react?" Rossi asked, looking straight at the youngest son.

"I cried," he said. "And then I got very angry with the police. My father told me that I had to be a bigger person and work with what I was given."

"You mean the shame," Hotch said. This time it was definitely a statement.

"When my dad changed his name back, we all had the choice," the oldest son said. "You are sitting in a room full of DuCettes. My sister didn't even change her name when she got married. Does that sound like shame to you?"

"You haven't answered me, agent," DuCette said. "Why aren't you talking to me?"

"Nobody kills one person, Mr. DuCette," Rossi said. "Not like Lynne Bard was killed and not like those three girls. No one on that kind of spiral can just stop."

"Unless they go to prison," Hotch said. Showtime.

"He's been out of prison and off parole for decades," Rossi said, committing fully to his part.

"Yes," said Hotch, his voice as cold as ice. "With a loving wife to cover up his indiscretions and three children to act as surrogates."

"What are you talking about?" DuCette demanded.

"Did your husband have sexual predilections that made you uncomfortable, Mrs. DuCette?" Hotch asked, his eyes hard. "Did they stop around the time your daughter turned eight? Were you relieved?"

"Don't you dare say things like that about my family!" Stephen DuCette flew off the chesterfield at Hotch. Constable Cooke caught him and held him back, but took it no further. After a few seconds of struggle, DuCette collapsed back on the couch in defeat. His eyes found Rossi. "I asked you here to help me."

"That's enough, Aaron," Rossi said. He felt his partner relax. "We all know you're innocent. We've know it since we pulled into your drive way. No one fakes normal that badly."

"What does _that _mean?" Liza asked, her voice sharp and defensive.

"You act like a victim, Mr. DuCette," Hotch said, his voice gentle. "You don't match the profile. Any child capable of raping and strangling one person, let alone three, would have grown up into a sexual sadist with sociopathic tendencies that would be impossible to hide."

"I don't understand," said Mrs. DuCette. She sounded hollow, like she was in shock.

"You love your wife, Mr. DuCette. And your children," Rossi said. "And they love you. Since we started talking, all you've tried to do is protect them and all they've done is protect you. That kind of reciprocity would be impossible if you were the man we're looking for. They are not afraid of you. You are, as you have always been, an innocent man."

Tears filled Stephen's eyes as he searched Rossi's face for any hint of treachery. He found none. He reached around his son for his wife, and pulled them both close. Rossi suddenly felt like more of an intruder into someone's privacy than he ever had before. Stephen looked up at Hotch, and his face hardened.

"You asked us to do our jobs," Hotch said, answering the unvoiced question. "This is what we do."

* * *

No one spoke until the SUV pulled back onto the 401. Constable Cooke, having now seen in action what he had only read on paper, seemed unsure how to talk to them. Rossi knew that Hotch was in no mood to talk to anyone, and he was content to let the silence rest. He didn't think that Cooke would feel the same way, and knew it was only a matter of time before the constable started asking questions Hotch didn't want to answer.

"What do we do next?" Cooke finally asked, pulling into the fast lane and setting the cruise control at a comfortable 120.

"If Prentiss and Reid turn up a suspect, the DuCettes may be able to end this entirely," Rossi said.

"And if not?"

"Then the legend continues," Hotch said flatly. These were truths he hated. "Except now you get to tell every doubter you meet that you sat in the room and watched the best profilers in the world determine a man's innocence."

"That's not enough."

"We know," said Rossi. "We know."

* * *

AN: This is what I wanted in place of the Pig Farmer episode. Yes, it's probably Canada's most well known murder lately, but it's one we've taken care of. It's not really finale material. I trust this show enough to deal with something bigger and more...interesting.

Bonus Fun Fact: "Devil's Night" is most famous in Detroit, but is actually the term given to October 30th throughout the eastern United States and Canada. So Hotch might know what it was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Mrs. Gallant?" Prentiss said it as a question even though Garcia had made it clear that Margaret Gallant had lived here alone since the death of her husband.

"Yes?" the woman said curiously. It is never comforting when a stranger knows your name, and Margaret showed due caution in an unknown situation. She held the door in front of her, opening her house and standing ready to use it as a barricade if need be; welcoming, but letting them know they'd need a good excuse to get inside.

"My name is Agent Emily Prentiss and this is Dr. Spencer Reid," Prentiss began. "We're from the FBI. We have some questions for you."

"About what?" Mrs. Gallant asked, opening the door a little further.

"May we come in?" Reid asked, looking his most harmless.

She regarded them both seriously. Prentiss realized that she legitimately had no idea what in the world had brought two FBI agents to her front door. She hadn't panicked, which meant she trusted her family members and friends, and she wasn't defensive, which meant she wouldn't hide things from them. Their challenge, then, would be leading her to the information they wanted her to tell them, and encouraging her to remember it.

Prentiss relaxed her face. Reid would understand her signal, although she wasn't sure it was possible for someone carrying a gun to look much more harmless than he already did. Knowing him, he'd probably already reached the same conclusion and was making every possible effort to make Mrs. Gallant feel less threatened. They stood in tableau for a few more seconds, and then the door opened all the way.

"Why are you even in Canada?" Mrs. Gallant asked as she led them into the living room. She sat down in an overstuffed chair. This left only the loveseat for Prentiss and Reid. As she sat down, much closer to Reid than she would have under normal circumstances, Prentiss almost smiled at the woman's ability to control her visitors.

"We're often called in to consult on cases all over North America," Reid said. "We teach local officers to do what we do, but sometimes they need us."

"So it's bad." Not a question, but still no panic. Prentiss' respect went up another few notches.

"Yes ma'am," she said. "It's serious."

"Please begin then," Mrs. Gallant sat back in her chair. She didn't look relaxed, but she looked settled and ready for whatever came.

"Can you tell us about the first house you lived in when you were a girl?" Reid began. He had figured it out in the car while Prentiss drove. They would start with geography and ease her into it.

"It was a farm house," Mrs. Gallant said. "Half a century old already when I was born. It had two stories and a big porch. Not a level surface in the whole place. I lost all my best marbles through the floorboards when I tried to play inside."

"Was it close to town?" Reid asked.

"It was about ten minutes outside of Raglan," she replied. "In the summer, anyway. It took longer in the snow."

"So it wasn't close to anything?" Prentiss prompted gently.

"Oh, it was just down the road from the RAF base," Mrs. Gallant said. "The base wasn't a proper town back then, but if you were enlisted you could shop there."

"Did you family shop on the base?" Prentiss asked.

"No, my father died when I was three and my mother kept the farm afterwards," Mrs. Gallant said. "My own boys enlisted in the Canadian Forces when they were in University, but they were the first since my grandfather."

"Was there a school on the base?" Reid asked, coking his head like he always did when he was asking a question he already knew the answer to. Fortunately he cocked his head for a lot of other reasons as well, so it was only a tell for those who knew him best.

"There was, but I didn't go to it," Mrs. Gallant replied. "I took the bus to Londsborough."

"So you never really had any contact with the people on the base?" Prentiss asked.

"Just with Stephen." Both agents stiffened in surprise. They had all but ruled DuCette out, just waiting on word from Hotch and Rossi to confirm what they all thought they knew. They managed to keep their surprise from their faces, however, because Mrs. Gallant didn't notice their reactions.

"How did you and Stephen meet?" Prentiss asked, only a fraction of a second later than would have been natural.

"My mother invited him over for dinner," Mrs. Gallant said. "He'd bought a house up the road, off base, and he helped out around here sometimes."

Reid and Prentiss exchanged a look. Something was very strange here.

"Mrs. Gallant," Reid said cautiously, "do you remember Stephen's last name?"

"Kalichuk," she replied instantly.

"Did he come over a lot?" Prentiss asked.

"At least once a week," Mrs. Gallant said. "Sometimes he took my mother out dancing."

The agents exchanged another look, this one long enough to raise the beginnings of alarm in their hostess. Reid's fingers flicked over his cell phone, a question, and Prentiss nodded.

"Excuse me," he said, rising to his feet. "I need to make a phone call."

* * *

"Speak, Boy Wonder, and the Oracle will enlighten you."

"Garcia, I need you to run a background check on a Stephen Kalichuk," Reid said.

"Kalichuk?" Garcia asked, but Reid knew she'd probably already hacked into his entire personal life by the time she finished the third syllable. "Oh!"

"What?"

"I'm patching Hotch and Rossi in, and Morgan too," Garcia said, her tone all business. "I don't want to have to read this twice."

* * *

Prentiss shifted on the loveseat, her movement drawing Mrs. Gallant's attention back from Reid's retreating form.

"Agent Prentiss," she began, "why are you here?"

"There was a murder on the RAF base the summer you moved away," Prentiss said.

"I remember," Mrs. Gallant replied. Then she smiled ruefully. "Actually, I don't remember. I didn't find out until years afterward."

"You were very young," Prentiss said.

"I was eight," Mrs. Gallant said. "Just a bit younger than that poor girl."

"What was Stephen like?" Emily had mastered the art of asking questions that might have horrible answers with a straight face.

"He was tall," Mrs. Gallant said. "And very strong. He loved cars and engines. He used to fix the tractor when it broke. My mother was heartbroken when he was reassigned."

"Reassigned?"

"To the RAF base near St. Alban's. It was about an hour away to the south." Mrs. Gallant explained. "But he always came to visit when he was on leave."

Prentiss's blood ran cold, and she made a note to ask Garcia to look up Kalichuk's leave times if she hadn't already. Garcia had a lot of initiative, and it would probably occur to her that a solider on leave could kill girls from more than one town.

"Did you like him?" Prentiss asked.

"Yes, I did," Mrs. Gallant said. "He used to let me sit on his lap and we would whisper secrets."

"What kind of secrets?"

"How much he loved coming to our house," Mrs. Gallant said. "How much he loved us."

"Mrs. Gallant?" Emily said, finally deciding it was now or never. "Why did you move?

* * *

"Stephen Kalichuk was assigned to the Raglan RAF base until 1957, when he was reassigned to St. Alban's," Garcia's voice emerged from the phone.

"Baby girl, why are we looking at this guy?" Morgan said, exchanging a look with Officer Broadfoot.

"He's the only person from the base Margaret Gallant said she knew," Reid replied, his voice sounding tinny through the phone.

"Keep going, Garcia," said Hotch.

"He was arrested in St. Alban's for trying to lure a ten-year-old girl into his car with a gift of new underwear."

"I like this guy already," Rossi said.

"It gets worse, sir," Garcia said. "The charges were dropped due to lack of evidence, but the local OPP watched him like a hawk after that."

"Garcia, if he was in St. Alban's," Morgan began, but Garcia cut him off.

"Way ahead of you, dreamboat. He was on leave when all four girls went missing. And he owned a car, so mobility wasn't a problem."

"What kind of car?" Morgan and Broadfoot spoke with a single breath.

"A 1959 Chevrolet Bel Air," Garcia said, after taking a moment to check.

"Morgan?" Rossi said.

"That's the car Stephen DuCette claimed he saw that night," Constable Cooke said.

"When was Kalichuk reassigned?" Rossi asked.

"He got his orders in late May," Garcia replied.

"Alma Dykstra moved away right after Kalichuk was reassigned," Rossi pointed out. "It's possible she figured out what he was doing."

"Emily is still talking to Mrs. Gallant," Reid cut in, "but I got the impression that Alma and Kalichuk were very close."

"When was the arrest in St. Alban's?" Rossi asked.

"Two weeks before Lynne Bard's murder," Garcia replied.

"What does that mean?" Constable Cooke asked.

"It means that Kalichuk was denied a kill right before he came back to an area where he thought he'd have an easy target," Rossi said.

"And when his easy target was gone, he acted in rage, went off-script and didn't conceal the evidence as well as he had previously," Morgan added.

"Kalichuk went back to Raglan to rape and strange Margaret Dykstra," Hotch said. "And when he couldn't have her, he took his anger out on Lynne Bard."

"And Stephen DuCette paid the price."

* * *

"I never knew why we moved," Mrs. Gallant said. "We just packed up all of our things at the end of May and left. We moved into my grandmother's house in Waterford until we bought this place, and I've been here ever since."

The door latch popped loudly as Reid came back inside. Prentiss couldn't help starting a little. She'd been totally absorbed in her questions. Reid sat back down beside her and leaned forward with his hands on his knees. Prentiss realized that the other shoe was about to drop, and drop _hard_.

"Sergeant Kalichuk was reassigned to Raglan base at the end of May the year your mother moved you away," he said.

"Why would she do that?" The question Mrs. Gallant asked was a reflex. Prentiss could see the woman deflate as she figured out the answer on her own seconds after voicing it.

"We think she was trying to protect you." Reid gave the answer anyway, unable to help himself.

"Did they ever fight?" Prentiss asked.

"I don't remember." Mrs. Gallant was starting to fall apart. Prentiss locked eyes with her, letting herself be used as an anchor. "Yes. The last time he came to visit, before we moved. It must have been March, because I had a new outfit for Easter and I hadn't worn it yet. He wanted to see it, so we played and had a fashion show while mother was cooking dinner. She found us just as I was changing back into my regular dress."

"Did he touch you?" Prentiss waited for the explosion and felt Reid tense beside her.

"I thought that's what fathers did," Mrs. Gallant said blankly. "All these years and I never once thought of him. Never once. Mother never spoke of him, so I didn't either, and then I forgot him altogether. He killed Lynne Bard that summer, did he?"

"We believe so, yes," Reid said tightly. "And before her, three other girls whose remains were only just discovered."

"God in mercy!" Mrs. Gallant fell back against the chair. "Tell me he's dead."

"He drank himself to death in 1975," Reid said.

Margaret Gallant put her head in her hands and took several deep breaths. Reid squirmed. Prentiss knew how much he hated causing this kind of awkwardness, this kind of damage. She didn't like it either, but it was part of the job.

"Is there someone we can call to come and sit with you for a bit?" Prentiss asked.

"My daughter-in-law," she replied. "I can call her."

Reid leaned back a little and Prentiss knew that they were done here. She hoped that they had not ruined another life in the search for the truth. It hardly seemed fair that one person's peace of mind should come at the expense of another's. She could only hope that Stephen Kalichuk's ghost would never rest easy.

"Agent Prentiss?" Mrs. Gallant asked in a thin voice. "Is Lynne dead because I wasn't there?"

It was another question asked on reflex. They all knew the facts. Lying about it would help no one, but that didn't mean she had to tell the truth.

"Mrs. Gallant, your mother was a single woman in the 1950s, trying to raise her daughter in safety. She did everything she could to protect you. And nobody is responsible for a murder except for the monster who did it."

* * *

Stephen DuCette held his wife's hand as they sat on the chesterfield and watched the press conference. The blonde agent spoke with such poise, such conviction, as she relayed the details to the public that it was impossible not to believe her. Still, Stephen was convinced it was all a dream.

Agent Hotchner stood in the doorway, uncomfortable and unwilling to intrude into the moment, but Agent Rossi said on the piano bench and watched with them. The two agents had disclosed information that would not be public knowledge. Stephen now knew the story of a girl named Maggie whose life had almost ended that summer, and he could not begrudge her the freedom that her life had cost him.

The press conference ended, and the cameras cut back to the National. As Peter Mansbridge summed up the events of the past few days, Stephen breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't over yet. It might never be. But now, everyone would know that for fifty years, he had told the truth. That was more than he'd dreamt of hoping for.

"Mr. and Mrs. DuCette," Rossi said, standing. "We have a plane to catch."

"Of course, Agent," Stephen nodded at both of them and rose to shake their hands. "Thank you. For everything."

"It's what we do," Hotch said simply.

* * *

The plane ride home is always shorter. Reid talks of tailwinds and the Earth's rotation, but they all know that they flight home is shorter because they can finally sleep.

"_The woods are lovely, dark and deep__  
But I have promises to keep  
__And miles to go before I sleep  
Miles to go before I sleep"_ – Robert Frost

* * *

**Fin**

AN: Wow. I think I need a nap. If anyone is interested in a commentary (ie. what is the truth and what I made up), let me know.

A huge THANK YOU goes out to wojelah, who mercilessly slaughtered the Oxford Comma and pointed out that a contraction every now and then wouldn't kill them.


End file.
